Even though I'm far from home now, every time I catch the scent of straw in the wind, my heart aches with nostalgia for the peaceful days in my beloved village.
In my hometown, harvest season is always the busiest time of the year. When the rice in the fields turns a brilliant golden yellow, farmers rush to the fields from early morning. The fragrant scent of ripe rice blends with the earthy smell of the harvested fields, creating a distinctive aroma of the harvest. Bundles of harvested rice are gathered into piles, then loaded onto ox carts that are slowly pulled to the drying yards.
The adults were busy all day threshing and drying rice, while we children just looked forward to playing on the golden straw mounds.
I remember those twilight afternoons, when we'd all gather around, jumping, rolling, and playing hide-and-seek. The haystack wasn't just a hiding place for the mischievous kids, but also a comfortable bed to lie on in the breezy countryside.
After each harvest, every household would have a large pile of straw, erected in the corner of the yard or on the porch. The straw was used for cooking, bedding for cattle, or as fertilizer for the next crop. On cold winter nights, sitting by the glowing fire, the straw smoke stung the eyes, yet brought a familiar warmth.
My mother often said that straw fires have a unique warmth; they're not as bright as dry wood fires, but they're rich and gentle. On days when the north wind blew fiercely, she would light a straw fire and place a pot of sweet potatoes or corn on it. Just a moment later, the aroma of roasted corn mingled with the smell of straw smoke would make our stomachs rumble with hunger. The cracked, slightly charred, hot sweet potatoes were passed around, eaten while blowing on them to cool them down – their delicious flavor was indescribable.
Back then, many houses in my village still had thatched roofs. Although not as sturdy as tile or corrugated iron, thatched roofs had a rustic charm, close to nature. In summer, the thatched roofs helped keep the house cool, and in winter, they provided warmth. I remember summer afternoons lying on a bamboo cot under the thatched roof, listening to the sparrows chirping in the thatched grass, feeling the gentle breath of the countryside carried on every breeze. The creaking of the hammock blended with the rustling of the wind, creating a peaceful country melody that lulled me to sleep.
On moonlit nights, after the farm work was finished, the village children would gather in the open field to play. The full moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the vast fields. We would huddle together, telling ghost stories and tales our grandparents had told us about the mysterious things in our village. These stories were so thrilling that they frightened us all, yet we still enjoyed listening.
There were days when we'd all go out to the fields to catch fireflies and put them in a glass jar, then gaze at the flickering lights like little lamps in the night sky. That feeling is still deeply etched in my mind, as an indelible part of my memory.
Growing up, I left my hometown to study and then established myself in the city. In the bustling metropolis, with its towering buildings, there was no longer the smell of straw, no longer thatched roofs, no longer the fragrant haystacks bathed in sunshine. Every time I return home, I make sure to go to the fields, walk barefoot on the earth, and take deep breaths of the scent of straw to fill the void of nostalgia.
Perhaps, my childhood, and that of countless others far from home, is filled with such familiar images: a warm straw fire on a winter night, a simple thatched house overflowing with love, a golden haystack where children play, and rice fields stretching to the horizon.
Memories of straw in my hometown are not just nostalgia, but a part of my soul—a place that holds peaceful days, a place I can return to whenever my heart is weary amidst the hustle and bustle of life. No matter how far I go, I always believe that my homeland is still there, with the fragrant scent of straw, with the simplest yet warmest things in life.
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/tuoi-tho-rom-ra-post322687.html
Comment (0)